


weep not

by turquoisetumult



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e03 The Wicked Day, Family Feels, Gen, Merlin Memory Month, Shared Grief, because I still believe Morgana was deeply affected by Uther's death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 22:50:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11000649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turquoisetumult/pseuds/turquoisetumult
Summary: Shortly after Uther’s death, Morgana pays Arthur a visit.---“I felt his pain,” she says softly, jade eyes seemingly lost in a haze. “I felt his spirit leave this worl-““And you’ve come to gloat,” he states, definitively, a harsh, cold truth awakening him. His once averted cobalt eyes, turned to his sister now, tidal waves raging within. “To come see his tomb and spit upon it?”





	weep not

His eyes are fixed on the king’s crown sat reverently upon his bed. ( _Its unexpected weight is incomparable even to the burden of dead men that Arthur’s carried upon his back after a decimating battle_.) In the weighty crown’s polished shine, Arthur sees the barest reflection of raven hair.

He blinks once and grunts, “Merlin, I’ve told you, I no longer require your services tonight. Go home.” (Had it not been for Arthur's purposely tight-pressed lips, he would have added: _Go home to Gaius, to the man who is your father in all but name. Go home to him while you still can._ )

“Would you believe it if I said that sometimes I wish I still could?” lilts a feminine voice that is sharp and challenging, honeyed and genuine, all at once.

No sooner than he hears the words, Arthur whirls to meet the speaker, his sword drawn from his sheath, primed for action.

“No,” Morgana utters, wistfulness visible in the curve of her lips, as she stands up straighter. “I don’t suppose you would.”

There is a flame in Arthur’s words, simmering beneath the surface. “If you think me vulnerable for attack in Camelot’s time of grief, you are sorely mistaken, my lady.”

“Worry not. My image is here, but my body is not. I cannot harm you; nor you me.” Arthur watches as the goblet on his table, half-filled with wine, passes through his sister’s fingers. “You see?”

“Magic,” he scoffs, contemptuously, relaxing his arm, whilst still securely grasping his sword’s hilt. “Always magic.” ( _And if Morgana’s face falls briefly in the lost hope that Arthur would be a more tolerant king than his predecessor, he does not make note of it._ )

Morgana swallows hard, says flatly, “Uther is dead.”

She is met with silence and a sudden twinge in Arthur’s downcast eyes, knuckles raised, bent forward against the dining table. She presses on, each word urging her brother’s fist further against the wooden furniture.

“I felt his pain,” she says softly, jade eyes seemingly lost in a haze. “I felt his spirit leave this worl-“

“And you’ve come to gloat,” he states, definitively, a harsh, cold truth awakening him. His once averted cobalt eyes, turned to his sister now, tidal waves raging within. “To come see his tomb and spit upon it?”

“No,” Morgana replies with equal fervor now. “Had you asked you me a week before his death, I would have told you I’d wanted to personally dissect him into bits small enough to feed my serpents while the rest of his rotting corpse bedded with the swine in the muck!”

It is a knee-jerk reaction that prompts Arthur to charge toward Morgana, his sword elevated and held with a white-knuckled hand, before she quickly adds: “But I don’t want this now.”

The words taper Arthur’s vehement rage and he stops in his tracks, starts inhaling deeply, quieting his thumping heart.

“I can’t explain it,” she says tonelessly.

Arthur’s shoulders slacken slightly. “So much of what made Father who he was was unexplainable. It’s fitting. In a way.”

“I _hate_ him,” Morgana hisses. “He has caused so much grief … for so many. For all those innocent children, asphyxiated in the rivers, and their parents, scorched at the stake. For your beloved Guinevere, for his closest companions, for his own flesh and blood. So many injustices and sorrows… I should be rejoicing. We both should.”

The gravity of the facts sober Arthur, eyes scanning the floor, processing all that Morgana has said, all that he has seen for himself over the years. The repugnant actions of a brute displayed clearly for all to see…

“And yet,” he mutters, resigned, unable to abandon other memories of a look of pride, a kind word, and firm hand on his shoulder.

“And yet…” Morgana agrees, an imperceptible nod, eyes fixed on the window behind Arthur, alit by the people’s evening vigil for their fallen king.

Every memory Arthur has of his father had been seeping into his mind since the funeral and so he cannot help but say one aloud. “Do you remember your twelfth birthday?”

Morgana displays a smug sneer. “The day I bested you in combat. For the first time, at least.”

A quiet chuckle escapes through his nose and he amends, “The day Father coerced me to _let_ you best me in combat, more like it.”

“Oh, _please_!” Morgana cries out, eyebrows drawn in annoyance, then with relaxed muscles and an almost jovial laugh that serves to push away the madness in her eyes, if only fleetingly, she says, “If you would have me believe that for one minute, you’re a greater fool than I thought, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur guides his sword to make invisible notches on the floor. He says, “Believe it. Or don’t. It’s been too many years and too many betrayals for it to quite matter now.”

Morgana cannot argue with his words and so she looks away and Arthur continues. “It was a good day, that day, wasn’t it?”

Their eyes both set on the steel idly marking the floor, but it is the clanging of long ago that they hear rather than the quiet metal against the wood.

_Morgana parries his blows with precision, deflecting each of 13-year-old Arthur’s advances. Her eyes light up with conviction; his cheeks warm with a sudden flush of embarrassment. In little time, with exhaustion, he falls to the soft ground below him, mud staining his blonde hair, evidence of his defeat. The young Lady Morgana, already an inch or so taller than him when they are both upright, is now towering above him, resting her sword complacently on her shoulder._

_Morgana’s free hand stretches out to him and as she helps lift him to his feet, she smiles brightly and leans in to say, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”_

_Arthur runs his fingers through the back of his head in an attempt to dislodge the soil. He smiles back. “Nor will I.”_

_The sound of applause makes their heads turn and they hardly recognize the man they see approaching them. When Uther reaches them, he clasps each of his hands on the children’s shoulders and gives a quick squeeze._

Morgana remembers: _“Well-done, my girl! To win against Arthur is no easy feat.” Uther embraces her, the pressure of his hands on her back giving her a sense of security in her life of change and loss._ (She won’t know until later how very strong those hands were when they wrapped themselves around her neck in a fit of his rage), _and so she nuzzles her cheek against him._

Arthur remembers: _“And you, my boy, what progress you have made. So often I think you are still a boy of six, picking up his wooden sword.” Uther ruffles Arthur’s soiled hair then, the tickle of his fingerpads prompting a broad smile from Arthur._ (He won’t know until later how very filthy his hair could get when he would disobey his king’s orders and he would be thrown in the icy, grimy dungeons for days on end), _and so he playfully groans and dodges Uther’s touch, smoothing back his hair._

“It was,” Morgana whispers in the empty silence of Arthur’s chambers, jolting them both into the present. “It was, indeed, a fine day. A testament to the man that Uther could have been.” ( _For us_ , she adds unspoken.)

Standing his sword against the back of the chair, Arthur frees his hands to clutch his half-filled goblet of wine. Glancing down into the cup, he swirls the liquid once before looking up to meet his sister’s eyes.

He raises the goblet. “A toast, then,” he begins, low and tightly. “To the man he could have been.”

Arthur pushes the goblet forth, as if to strike it against another’s; instead he receives a heartfelt nod from Morgana, and, closing his eyes, he takes a swig.

With a small grimace and his eyes still shut, Arthur turns his heel. He takes a few short steps to the window facing the courtyard. He peers out below and surveys the people, extinguishing the flames of their candles’ wicks and dispersing as the evening’s twilight descends into total darkness.

“I know,” Arthur murmurs, then pauses suddenly, words stuck in his throat. “I know Father had an obstinate temperament and perhaps it’s a Pendragon trait, but…”

He drops his chin, swallows thickly, and continues on, “If you would have us, then Camelot – _I_ – would not refuse you.”

“Morgana.” Arthur turns to face her. His eyes glance around his chambers, searching, hopefully. But Morgana is nowhere to be seen.

Sighing deeply, he gazes down once more into goblet and swirls what little wine remains. The slush of the liquid hypnotizing, Arthur speaks into it softly.

“To the sister I could have had,” he says before guzzling it all greedily.

**Author's Note:**

> \- I know several fics make Morgana older than Arthur, but there was never any confirmation and I honestly don't believe Uther would have an affair with Vivienne while Igraine was still alive. 
> 
> \- Prompt: "Family in blood or in mind" from Merlin Memory Month over at Tumblr.
> 
> \- First foray into Merlin fanfic. Hopefully, it inspires the writing bug in me? I'd appreciate any review and let me know how I did! Thanks!


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